Invasion! Earth vs. The Aliens

by Robert Reginald

  They stuck close to the highway. Although there were other dirt roads heading off to either side, Steve knew from previous experience that this was the only way through the Wilderness for at least fifteen miles in either direction. It was the Ortega Highway—or nothing.

  That evening they stayed near a large house where the owner was fixing barbecued beans and franks on an open barbecue pit fire for anyone who wanted them.

  “Got enough here to feed an army for a year,” he said. “Ain’t doin’ me much good, that’s for dang sure.”

  Steve thought it was one of the best meals that he’d ever had.

  They were allowed to sleep in one of the ranch’s barns. The hay was rough and poking, but softer than the bare ground would have been.

  “God, I’m tired,” Cassie said, stretching her arms in the loft. She chuckled: “Everyone seems to think I’m your wife.”

  “Maybe you are,” he said, smiling at the thought. “I don’t care what people think, Cassie. I just want to get you and Erie to safety, any way I can.”

  But she was already asleep, and so was the little girl.

  My brother found sleep hard to find, though, even with the lassitude he could feel seeping into his bones. The trauma of the past few days was suddenly catching up with him. He wondered how many men had died yesterday and today, and how many more would follow tomorrow. He would have pondered more upon these things, except that he too fell into a deep slumber.

  Sometime in the middle of the night he woke briefly to find his two companions cuddled up next to him. Maybe it was the warmth of their bodies that had stirred him. They already felt like a family. He found, surprisingly, that he didn’t mind the thought. Then he slept again.

  The rancher, a man named Ricardo Valdeste (“Call me ‘Rich’”), offered them fried eggs the next morning, the third day after Christmas.

  “Got a whole coop full of the damn things,” he said. “If I don’t use ’em, they just go to waste.”

  “Aren’t you evacuating?” Steve asked.

  “Hell, I’ve spent nigh on to forty years up here on this damned mountain,” Valdeste said. “I’ve seen fires and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days I never thought would end. I’m not leaving it now. If the Martians come, they come. If I die, I die. I’m seventy-five years young. Hey, I’ve lived a good life. Ain’t goin’ be around that much longer anyways.”

  “We won’t forget your kindness,” Steve said, shaking the man’s hand. “If we survive, we’ll be back to check on you.”

  “I do ’preciate it, son,” Rich said. “Now you and your pretty wife and daughter better skedaddle on down this mountain. You don’t want to lose ’em.”

  “No, sir, I don’t,” Steve said, and meant it too.

  Valdeste had shown them a lane on a detailed forestry map that would save them several miles of walking.

  “You have to go up and down a bit more,” he said, pointing at the inset, “but you’ll pick up a couple of hours. You take this with you. I don’t need it.”

  Then the rancher wished them well, and the fugitives headed off into the wilderness.

  The path was no more than a trail, really, but it wound its way through a wooded area that was actually quite pleasant, and certainly cooler than the hot asphalt had been. It was almost like walking in a park, save for the hilly sections. Steve carried Erie up the steepest of the slopes. They rested frequently. They saw no one.

  About noon they stopped to eat some jerky and fruit and cookies, washing them down with bottled water. Erie went off briefly to do her thing—“not too far, mind,” her mother cautioned—and the adults were alone for the first time since they’d met, just two days earlier.

  “When this is all over,” Cassie said quietly, “I’d really like to see you again, if that’s OK.”

  “It’s OK,” he said, smiling.

  He reached out and took her hand, and she gripped it hard. Then they both jumped to their feet at the sudden scream of Cassie’s daughter.

  Erie was just down the trail, her hands holding up her pants. Confronting her from twenty feet away was the tawny face of a cougar, its incisors bared. Steve didn’t even think; he rushed right by the girl straight at the cat, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. Scared by the unexpected confrontation with this large, noisy monster, the big mountain lion abruptly turned tail and ran away. Steve grabbed the girl and Cassie joined him, putting her arms around both of them.

  “You’re all right,” he said, over and over again, holding the girl close.

  When everyone had found their breaths, they gathered up their things, and headed down the trail.

  They reached San Juan Canyon and the blacktop road before dinner time, falling in with the long line of refugees slowly trudging their way towards the coast.

  “How far is the wreck?” he asked one of the men.

  “About a mile on, I think.”

  The San Juan River, although dry part of the year, had carved a considerable channel through the rock, and the towering walls of the canyon closed in on them, providing some shade amid the strange formations on either side.

  “They’re almost like sculptures,” Cassie said, looking up at the carved and colorful rock faces.

  They reached the site of the accident an hour later. A big rig had jackknifed right across both lanes of the road, jamming into one wall of the canyon and hanging out over the river bed on the other side, draped onto the guardrails.

  “They won’t clear this one up easily,” Steve said.

  There were several police cars clustered on the west side of the wreck, and at least one open-topped truck.

  “There must be over two hundred people here,” Cassie said.

  The cops were giving out numbers to those waiting for transportation. When Steve asked how long it would be, one of the police just shrugged.

  “Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve gotten fewer and fewer trucks and buses as the day’s gone on, so I don’t think we’ll see very many more tonight. You might want to find a place to settle down with your family.”

  “What about Orange County?” Steve asked.

  “You mean the Martians? They aren’t there yet, but I doubt they’ll wait too long. We’re still taking people off in ships. If you can find your way there in time, there’ll be a boat for you somewhere.”

  My brother went back to Cassie and told her what the police had said.

  “We’re going to have to stop here tonight,” he said. “They do have some hot food and cold water down there. It’s not much, but it’s better than what we have.”

  “I’d give anything for a shower,” she said, sighing and brushing a lock of hair off her sweaty forehead. “All right, let’s go.”

  The meal consisted of lukewarm hamburgers and limp fries and almost cold pop. It was filling, if nothing else. Then they found a place underneath one of the rock overhangs, and snuggled down together with a blanket, Steve’s arm draped around Cassie on one side and Erie on the other, and managed to sleep a bit through the night. Their “bed” was uncomfortable, but at least they had each other.

  The next day, the winds let up a bit, and the temperature was more bearable. There was even a hint of mist in the air.

  They managed to board a yellow school bus the next morning. They sat in one row close together, their packs stuffed down around their feet. It took them an hour to wind down the rest of the canyon to the residential area on the east side of San Juan Capistrano.

  The junction of Highway 74 with Interstate 5 was heavily congested, with the freeway being almost totally blocked by traffic. Still, the police kept the underpasses sufficiently clear that some travel was possible, and the bus finally deposited the three fugitives at Mission San Juan Capistrano, which was being used as a transfer site for the evacuees. There they were forced to register as refugees.

  Steve gave them his full name (Stephen Jackson Smith), and then Cassie had to sign for herself (Cassandra Elizabeth Austen) and her daughter (
Erin Eliza Weckesser).

  “You don’t use your husband’s name?” the official asked.

  “No, I’ve never gotten around to changing it,” she said very sweetly, “and my daughter was by my first husband.”

  “What’s the situation down south?” Steve asked.

  “I-5 and the railroad are blocked at Oceanside,” the man said. “You’ll have to go out either through San Clemente or San Onofre State Beaches.”

  “How soon?”

  “By nightfall. We have to move quickly now before the Martians show up. You’re in Group 225. When you hear your number called, report to the bus out front.

  “Next!” the man said, motioning them on.

  They were passing out snacks, packaged peanuts, pretzels, water, and cookies at a stand in front of the Mission, so the trio sat down together there and rested for awhile.

  “Steve…,” Cassie said.

  He just shook his head.

  “Wait till we’re safe,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE BRANDYWINE DECANTED

  Behold, now, another providence of God.

  A ship comes into the harbor.

  —William Bradford

  Stephen Smith, 29 December, Mars Year i

  Orange County, California, Planet Earth

  The old Mission at San Juan Capistrano was serving as temporary headquarters for the evacuation of refugees from the Orange County and Inland areas. Steve and his two charges, Cassie Austen and her daughter Erie, arrived there in early afternoon, and were assigned numbers in the queue. A few hours later they boarded a bus and were driven to San Clemente, where the fugitives were slowly being loaded onto boats for evacuation.

  Many of the refugees were hungry, tired, ill, depressed, and yearning to breathe free. The aid workers were distributing food packets and bottled water, but not much of anything else. There was no place to sit or wait: they either had to stand or plop on the ground. Despite the dire circumstances, the crowds were remarkably quiet and orderly. Even the children seemed subdued; perhaps they realized the seriousness of their plight. Steve said that he noticed several individuals who started crying for no apparent reason, and then stopped; and others who expressed anger or outrage at the ease with which the Martians had subdued mankind. Overall, though, people mostly tried to help other people.

  Of the alien machines there was no sign. Steve was told that the enemy had occupied all of the inland valleys of Southern California, but thus far had only reached the coastline at Oceanside, thereby putting San Diego in jeopardy. Most of Los Angeles proper was still free, and still had electrical power and water; and Orange County remained unoccupied.

  The authorities found it difficult to retain control in the big urban areas. Property rights were ignored and looting was commonplace. Men tried to defend their stores, their homes, their livelihoods with any weapons at their disposal, but it was a futile gesture against the rampaging mobs. Real knowledge of the invaders was sorely lacking. Folks had heard wild tales about the striders, sting-rays, and the Black Death, but much of it was based on false information. My brother listened to the lone, battery-operated radio that was available on the beach, which said that the city fathers of Los Angeles had gathered at Santa Monica, and were preparing to evacuate north up State Highway 1, if necessary.

  The Martians were rumored to be invading Tarzana, Fontana, Beaumont, Corona, or any of a dozen other places throughout the L.A. Basin, but it was all a bunch of hooey. The military and the Mayor of Los Angeles knew where the Martians were actually located; their slow advance towards the coast was being carefully plotted on maps.

  The Navy had dispatched several warships from San Diego to San Pedro, the main port facility of Los Angeles. The evacuation operation was being coordinated out of the U.S. Naval Reservation in San Diego. Ships of all kinds had been seized with the cooperation of their owners, and were ferrying boatloads of fugitives from the Los Angeles area to San Diego, Hawaii, Tijuana, and Ensenada. Some of the bigger vessels could only operate near the docks of San Pedro, but many others used small motor craft to land on the numerous beaches of Southern California, and ferry the refugees out to the waiting ships offshore. Some of these vessels had made ten or a dozen trips to and from San Diego in the preceding two days.

  Steve saw dozens, even hundreds of small ships lying off the state beaches at Doheny, San Onofre, and San Clemente. These were arranged in a sickle-shaped mass near an off-shore fogbank. Closer in he could see a multitude of small fishing boats, yachts, motorboats, and even sailboats; and further out were anchored the larger commercial vessels. Nearer the beach was a dense swarm of rowboats and smaller motor craft ferrying people to and from the larger ships anchored in deep water.

  A couple of miles from shore he also spotted a large warship. He noted down the particulars, and was later able to identify it as the Ticonderoga Class Guided Missile Cruiser, the U.S.S. Brandywine, its identification number (82) clearly visible across its gray steel prow. It was the only such vessel in sight, but far away to both the left and the right over the smooth sea—and that day there was a dead calm, fortunately—he could spy a trail of dark smoke that marked several other ships in the Pacific Fleet, ready to give their all to protect the vital lifeline they had established.

  About mid-afternoon my brother and his two companions heard their numbers called. They boarded a motorboat (Erie got her feet wet!) and plowed through the surf without difficulty. For years afterwards, folks remarked on the calmness of the waves during that fateful day. They headed towards a large pleasure yacht anchored a few hundred yards offshore. As they approached the vessel from its rear, they could see its name proudly displayed on its stern—The Unsinkable Mollie K.

  “A good omen,” Cassie said.

  They were welcomed on board the beautifully maintained craft, the ship’s hands helping them up the ladder.

  There were already fifteen or twenty fugitives lining the rails, but the captain continued to hold his position close to the coast for over an hour, picking up as many passengers as he dared, until the decks were almost dangerously overcrowded. He probably would have remained even longer if it hadn’t been for the sound of guns erupting immediately to the south. The Martians had apparently reached the Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base just beyond San Clemente, where our boys were putting up a fierce resistance.

  The large cruiser offshore abruptly hoisted anchor. A jet of dark smoke shot from its funnel as it moved forward to provide cover for the evacuees. Any ships that were full promptly set sail for the open sea, but many of the other captains courageously ordered their vessels to move towards the coastline, giving the remaining refugees their last best chance of escaping the coming battle.

  The noise rapidly grew louder. My brother could now hear the zzzttt-zzzttt of the Martian sting-rays in addition to the roar of our artillery and tank guns, together with the popping of the gas canisters as they were flung by the aliens at our men at Camp Pendleton. To the north, three other naval warships rose one after the other out of the sea, outlined beneath their clouds of black smoke, as they drove forward to assist the effort.

  The yacht suddenly pulled anchor and began moving west towards the distant fog bank. The California coast was growing a little hazy when a Martian suddenly appeared, small and faint on the southern horizon, advancing north by northwest along the surf-line from the direction of San Diego. The captain started swearing at the top of his lungs at the slowness of his ship’s passage, but there were so many vessels hugging the coast at this point that it was impossible to proceed quickly without risking a disastrous collision. Every eye on board was riveted by that distant metal shape standing higher than the trees, as it strode confidently up the beach with its leisurely parody of a human gait.

  This was the second Martian machine that my brother had ever seen, after the distant strider that he’d spied near Lake Elsinore. He stood there transfixed at the sight, watching this huge erector set as it suddenly began to wade into the sea. Far to
the south, skirting some stunted trees, came another strider, and then another, plowing through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang halfway between sea and sky. They were all stalking north from Oceanside, apparently having defeated the Marines at Camp Pendleton. The Unsinkable Mollie K. receded with terrifying slowness from this ominous advance.

  Glancing around, my brother saw each of the refugee ships sailing away from the approaching Martian machine, one vessel passing behind another, another coming around broadside, bellowing and honking at each other, individual motorboats rushing hither and thither and yon. One was too slow, and was swatted into kindling by the swing of a Martian tentacle. Another pair collided in their haste, dumping their passengers into the ocean.

  Then the swift yaw of the yacht flung Steve headlong onto the railing and backwards onto the deck, almost casting him overboard.

  “Steve!” Cassie said, rushing with Erie to his aid. They held onto each other and the rail as tight as they could.

  Cheers echoed across the water. The yacht lurched and rolled once and then twice and then once again.

  Passing to starboard not a hundred yards away was a vast steel hulk. The blade of its prow tore through the water, tossing huge waves of foam to either side. The yacht was sucked down to the point where the starboard deck almost touched the waterline.

  The salt spray blinded Steve for a moment. When his eyes cleared again, he saw that the warship had a large, humped, gray superstructure over its center of gravity to house the vessel’s guided missile system. The Brandywine was sailing to the rescue!

  The oncoming Martian machines were now standing far out from shore, their bodies almost completely submerged, with just their carapaces showing. Seen from this perspective, they appeared far less formidable than the warship steaming towards them. Strangely, the aliens seemed to regard this new antagonist with some puzzlement. This was typical of their general reaction.